


painting with words

by planetundersiege



Series: Good Omens Celebration 2020 [20]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drabble, GOC2020, Good Omens Celebration, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Poetry, Wordcount: 100-500
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24286141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/planetundersiege/pseuds/planetundersiege
Summary: Good Omens Celebration: Day 20: PoetryOne thing he never got tired of was listening to Aziraphale whenever he wrote down poetry.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Celebration 2020 [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726624
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	painting with words

Crowley wasn’t much of a writer. During his life, he had never felt the desire to just sit down and write something down, no matter if it was biographic, fiction, or just his thoughts. With a memory like his, he remembered the important parts anyway, and even if he had an imagination, he just didn’t see the appeal in writing something himself.

He liked to read from time to time though, even though he pretended to hate all type of reading. He didn’t do it that often, maybe one book a year or so, unlike Aziraphale who could read several in a week. Too much reading was overwhelming, and he didn’t wanna get tired of this occasional hobby of his.

But, one thing he never got tired of was listening to Aziraphale whenever he wrote down poetry. When he did, he always made sure to say out loud what he was writing with that old fashioned pen on the paper, and Crowley always got caught up with his amazing words. They seemed to paint their moment, the way he said them, the way he looked when he wrote, and the way he would occasionally smile at Crowley when he stopped for a few seconds to think of the next row, the next row of the stories that were his poems.

His words were a magic, and he could never get enough, and never would. He felt so special, that he was allowed to hear his angel create such beautiful combinations of words, so filled with emotions. He could listen to him for hours, imagine whatever he described in front of him. Most poems were about love, making everything even more special. They described everything, and often involved mentions of a certain demon with feathers black as cinder, himself.

Yes, he could listen to him, forever.


End file.
